


We Thought We Lost You

by eponymmouse



Series: Visions [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Always-a-girl!Merlin, Captivity, Gen, Power Dynamics, mentions of Merlin/Will - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 02:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12333756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eponymmouse/pseuds/eponymmouse
Summary: Merlin, in Cenred's castle, as Morgause's protégée. There are probably more dangerous places for her to be, but nothing immediately comes to mind.





	We Thought We Lost You

**Author's Note:**

> So I said this series was leading up to Merlin/Arthur, and I swear this is the last instalment before their paths cross at last! It is a rather necessary one, though ^^
> 
> This fic follows immediately after the events of "Adventures in Solitude." To recap where we left things: in this AU, Merlin never went to Camelot, and instead accepted Will's offer of marriage. Kanen's men still invaded Ealdor, however, and Will still died, and Merlin still made her magical sandstorm happen, dispatching with the attackers. This open act of sorcery drew Morgause and Cendred's attention to her, so the Essetir knights arrived to convey her to Cenred's castle. 
> 
> (Various things also happened in Camelot, but they're less relevant for the purposes of this part.)
> 
> Many many many thanks to my beta and cheerleader [agedsolarwhisk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agedsolarwhisk/pseuds/agedsolarwhisk)! <3

Cenred’s castle is a far cry from the descriptions of Camelot given by Merlin’s mother. This one is a dark, sprawling fortress, and the sentries who walk its hallways look almost as if they are prisoners here, too.

Upon being forcefully delivered there by her knight escort, Merlin is shown to the biggest room she’s ever seen. For the first time in her life, she has a bed all to herself, the mattress unbelievably soft and yielding. She has a desk, too, and a wardrobe. A dress is laid out for her, modest and blue, and there are people willing to help her put it on. It almost feels like she’s treated as an honoured guest. Or being fattened up for slaughter. 

Merlin knows which of those is true. If she were not so numb from grief, she might feel terrified. 

Once she is ready, a guard leads her to a cavernous room of stone, lit up by torches in brackets on the walls. A single chair sits at the end of the chamber, a black-clad figure reposing on it. With a start, Merlin realizes that she is in the presence of the King of Essetir. She kneels, struck equally by King Cenred’s young and handsome face and by the malice in his eyes. She barely notices a blonde woman by his side.

This proves to be a mistake.

“Merlin, was it?” the woman purrs. “I am Morgause. Let’s see, then, what magic you can do.”

The woman moves with a predator’s grace as she steps in front of the king to look down at Merlin. Her dress, the most elaborate Merlin has ever seen, swirls around her ankles, rises up to embrace her throat in a hold that might look choking if not for the fact that Morgause appears infinitely more likely to choke anything she doesn’t like, instead.

“I—I, my lady, I don’t know magic,” Merlin says, stumbling over her words, frozen under that hawk-like gaze. “I haven’t—I didn’t even know—”

Deny, deny, deny; her mother’s lessons have sunk in well, and Merlin clings to the repudiation of her magic even now, when the secret is out in the open.

“Hmm,” Morgause says, tilting her head to the side. “And yet you conjured up that most impressive sandstorm.”

Merlin shivers. The memory of the storm she flung against the men invading her village blurs in her mind, becoming part of the same nightmare which resulted in Will’s death. “I was… scared, and angry.”

“Of course.” Morgause smiles, and that’s possibly even more frightening than her keen regard. “Rise, my dear.”

Merlin straightens up, smoothing down her skirts. She suddenly feels very young and very alive, and she’s not sure she wants to die after all, not if Morgause’s smile is the last thing she’ll see. 

“Have you had anyone to teach you?” Morgause asks.

“No, my lady,” Merlin says, and bites her lip. “But also—no one knew that I—I didn’t—I hadn’t—”

“I grow bored of the pea-brained girl,” the king announces, and lifts an eyebrow at Morgause when she turns to look at him. “Truly, is this the best you can do?”

“That storm is even more remarkable if she is untrained,” Morgause says, and reaches out to smooth a hand over Merlin’s hair. “With proper guidance, you could shine, my dear.”

“My lady?” Merlin swallows.

“Take her back to her room,” Morgause tells the guards. “I will start on her tomorrow.”

***

Merlin becomes very well acquainted with the inside of her chambers. She sleeps not a wink on the first night, only succumbing to a fretful slumber when the sun stirs on the horizon; her sleep is equally disturbed on the nights that follow, freakish visions and fears edging into her dreams.

Will is gone. Her mother is so far away.

Will is _gone._

Merlin’s whole world has fallen apart, and she lays staring into the dark, asking herself how it can be true, how she has come to be in this castle, attended to by servants, kept under the watchful eye of the king himself. She can hardly follow the changes in her own destiny; all of it feels like a strange scary dream, waking hours just the same as sleep.

***

“What know you of the Old Religion?” Morgause asks on the morrow of Merlin’s arrival. 

Merlin expected to be called away for their lesson, but instead Morgause came into her room, invading it unannounced with a sure step and a pleasant look on her face, as if she was glad to see Merlin. As if Merlin should be glad to see _her,_ the jailor who brought her here.

“I know the Old Religion has to do with magic,” Merlin says, truthfully relaying the extent of her knowledge. “And that Uther Pendragon destroyed it.”

“Uther Pendragon merely wishes he had,” Morgause says, lips twisting. A faraway look enters her eyes, filled with such hatred that Merlin wants to inch away. “The Old Religion is very much alive, and the Isle of the Blessed still stands. Diminished, robbed of its former splendour… but the Old Religion has priestesses still. You shall be one of them.”

The words ring with finality. It seems that Merlin shall have no choice in the matter.

“I… don’t know what it means,” Merlin says. _I don’t even want to know,_ she doesn’t add.

“You will, in time,” Morgause promises. A smile curls her mouth when she looks at Merlin — small, tinged with possessive satisfaction. She takes Merlin’s hands in hers, squeezes. “You’re with your people now, child. This is where you belong. You’re home at last.”

Merlin’s flesh crawls where Morgause touches her.

_I am not at home,_ she thinks. _You took me from my home. Your soldiers threatened to strike my mother down if I resisted._

“You’re safe now,” Morgause says, stroking a gentle hand down Merlin’s cheek.

Every instinct tells Merlin to push Morgause away. What would happen if she did? Would Merlin feel Morgause’s anger on her own skin? Or would Morgause prefer to hurt Merlin’s mother by way of punishment?

The uncertainty of it keeps Merlin frozen in place. Over the roar of her own thoughts, she barely hears Morgause start explaining the intricacies of magic’s flow.

***

Her first few weeks in the castle, Merlin is confined to her room except for several meals which she is required to attend in the great hall. On normal days, food is brought to her, then the empty tray is taken away, and there are guards outside her door. The window of her room looks out not at the courtyard, which might have let her keep up with the comings and goings in Cenred’s keep, but out onto the forest. Perhaps it is purposefully done, the beautiful vista there to taunt her with freedom she no longer has.

Morgause keeps descending on Merlin’s room with lessons and talk of magic, and there is a hungry part of Merlin that hangs on her every word. Morgause brings knowledge that Merlin’s always craved; in Morgause, she finds the only person she’s ever met who’s like her, who understands what it’s like to have power exploding from her fingertips, who’s felt the thrill of magic rushing through her veins.

Morgause is also the enemy. She’s ruthless and dangerous and the only reason why she’s teaching Merlin is so she can use her. Merlin cannot learn from her, because if she does, she’s doing exactly what Morgause wants.

But she cannot refuse learning, either. Morgause will not give her that luxury, even if Merlin could’ve found the strength of will to cast offered knowledge aside.

She makes her progress in halting steps, torn between competing desires not to play into Morgause’s hands and to avoid incurring punishment. Luckily, Morgause doesn’t seem to have realized it so far; she seems to think Merlin merely shy and young and a bit slow.

“Very well done, child,” she praises when Merlin manages the levitation spell after several painstaking lessons. “Now, repeat after me—”

***

The trees outside Merlin’s window turn yellow with autumn’s approach, then golden, then a deeper brown. The stack of books on her desk grows ever higher, and sometimes when Merlin goes to sleep the written words dance before her eyes, spells and potion recipes searing themselves into her brain.

Too many of the spells she’s set to learn are used for causing pain. Too many recipes are for poisons. Merlin entertains no illusions what Morgause is training her for, what Cenred eventually expects her to do.

Merlin may not be able to avoid this fate altogether, but she might postpone it. Her early established reputation as a bumbling country girl serves her well: she needs not fake stuttering before the king, and her spells falter under Morgause’s regard. She makes sure to require an explanation twice, no matter how quickly she grasps the material; she pretends to be as slow a learner as Morgause will tolerate.

In her free time, she pores over the books Morgause leaves her, studying them cover to cover. If she ever hopes to go against Morgause, she needs to be strong, much stronger than now. But Morgause must never know how strong she is becoming.

“What’s ailing you, child?” Morgause asks, impatient, as Merlin fumbles a spell for the third time during their practice session in Merlin’s rooms. “You’re acting very stupid this morning.”

“I’m sorry, Priestess,” Merlin says.

It’s what Merlin calls her, now she knows of the Old Religion and the women who guard its flow from the Isle of the Blessed. _It’s who you are,_ Morgause has told her. _It’s where you come from. You just don’t know yet how powerful you can be._ The Old Religion’s chants sit oddly in Merlin’s mouth, and Morgause might believe that Merlin will be powerful, but Merlin certainly doesn’t feel it yet, not next to the tidal force of Morgause’s strength.  

“I asked you a question,” Morgause says, a warning in her tone.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says again. “I did not sleep well. It is nothing.”

Morgause lifts a hand to touch Merlin’s brow, and Merlin fights to keep herself still.

“Foolish child,” Morgause says. “You ought to have told me. Here, come. We will prepare a tincture, and you will drink it tonight before bed, and see how you fare then.”

“Yes, Priestess.”

Morgause smiles at her, and Merlin drops her eyes. The kindness grates at her, but she can hardly complain. Morgause is the only person in the castle who treats her well. Morgause will also punish Merlin’s mother without remorse if Merlin sets a toe out of line.

“Come along, child, and bring the book I gave you,” Morgause says, rising from her seat and beckoning Merlin after her. 

Merlin goes.

*** 

Mornings grow freezing cold and mists start hanging over the forest by the time Morgause first takes Merlin to the Isle of the Blessed. It’s there, shivering from icy winds, that Merlin meets Nimueh.

“What a strange little lamb you’ve brought to me, Morgause,” Nimueh says. Where Morgause is smooth, coiled violence, Nimueh is a splash of blood on virgin white snow. Nimueh’s eyes are fire, and power thrums in the air around her, setting Merlin’s nerves alight the moment they meet.

“It’s an honour to meet you,” Merlin lies. 

“No, it isn’t,” Nimueh says, leaning close, conspiratorial. “You don’t even want to be here, little lamb. But mmm, you smell like a storm, one about to break. On whose head, I wonder?”

Merlin doesn’t look at Morgause. Not breaking is a thing she’s become exceedingly good at, over the last few months.

“Isn’t she lovely, sister?” Morgause says. “All that potential. She’ll make a worthy priestess one day.”

Nimueh’s smile is mocking. “Will she?”

_Dangerous,_ Merlin’s mind whispers. Morgause still thinks she can tame Merlin, but Nimueh… Nimueh sees right through her. And Merlin doesn’t want to know what will happen the day she ceases to seem amused.

***

By the time spring flowers bloom, Cenred gets vocal in his displeasure at Merlin’s slow progress.

“She’s been here for months,” he snarls, turning to Morgause as Merlin kneels at their feet. It’s a familiar picture by now. “She has to start earning her keep.”

“I’ll thank you not to question me,” Morgause says, not even bothering with a pretence of respect. “Or would you rather I took her and left elsewhere, where I’ll be more appreciated?” Her narrowed gaze dares him to lash out at her, and for a moment Merlin believes Cenred has reached the limit of what he’s able to take. Violence flashes in his eyes, and his fists clench. Merlin wonders if his first blow will be for her, or for Morgause; but then he restrains himself, and the grin on his face looks painful for how insincere it is.

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling Morgause,” he says, turning from Merlin altogether. She relaxes minutely the moment his eyes are off her. “Where would we be without each other?”

Merlin keeps kneeling until she’s told to rise. It takes a long time.

***

With the advent of warmer months, Morgause makes it a habit to take Merlin out for walks during their lessons—in the unkempt castle gardens, in the nearby forest. They never venture far, and Merlin doesn’t make the mistake of assuming she is free to go where she likes. But Morgause wants her to feel the flow of magic in the earth, to touch the leaves and stems of plants and sense the life granted to them by the Old Religion. Morgause teaches Merlin how to distinguish the natural patterns, and how to divert them, shape them to Merlin’s own liking. 

She continues her history lessons, also.

“In his desire to beget a son, King Uther made a bargain with the Old Religion,” Morgause explains, her voice softly lyrical, as their horses meander slowly down a narrow forest path. “But he did not like the terms. Can you guess what happened, Merlin?”

Merlin draws her brows, focused mostly on staying atop her horse. There was not much occasion for horse-riding in Ealdor.

“He purged all magic, Priestess.”

“Yes, child, you would be an imbecile not to know that much,” Morgause says. “But the bargain in question required a life traded for a life. Imagine, then, that the Old Religion wished to take a life Uther hadn’t expected to give.”

Merlin’s gaze flits to Morgause, startled. “Oh,” she says. “It was Queen Ygraine, wasn’t it? Queen Ygraine had to die for their son to be born?”

“Very good,” Morgause says, and her smile is hard with some unknown satisfaction. “King Uther thought he could make a bargain and then enforce his rules. He blamed Nimueh when the Old Religion exacted its price, though he had pledged himself to the spell long before.”

“And this is why he killed all those thousands of people?” Merlin asks, feeling cold all of a sudden. “Because Queen Ygraine, whom he loved—”

“He sacrificed Ygraine for Arthur,” Morgause says. “He couldn’t live with it, child. He thought Nimueh might die, you see. But she lived, and Ygraine died. And Uther could not forgive her that.”

“So he—” Merlin swallows. She has heard countless stories, told by Morgause again and again, of families burnt alive and children drowned in wells and the king only driving harder, only pressing further, hoping to excise every last sorcerer from his land.

And Morgause is pursuing goals of her own, Merlin knows. Morgause cannot be trusted. But these tales, the words of Uther’s cruelty, echo what Merlin has heard since childhood. 

“Uther has committed terrible crimes,” Morgause says, and it is the priestess speaking now. “He will not be forgiven for that, and his son will be held to answer for the blood spilled upon his birth.”

“Is Arthur just as bad as Uther?” Merlin asks.

She remembers Gaius’s rare letters to her mother, the words of cautious hope. _Arthur has a heart which is noble and fair,_ Gaius said. He described a handsome golden prince, one who would surely lead the kingdom well someday. Merlin thought, even then, that he might have been exaggerating, or fooling himself into believing the best of Arthur Pendragon. After all, Arthur is the first of Camelot’s knights, Uther’s beloved heir. He is a proud part of the regime that would see her killed for her magic.

“Not so long ago, Uther and Arthur were burning druid children in the town square,” Morgause says.

Morgause lies. Here, trapped in the web of her influence, with all her knowledge filtered through the prism of Morgause’s teachings, Merlin doesn’t always know when to believe her—if she can ever be believed.

***

Flowers grow at the direction of Merlin’s hand and mandrake roots whisper their dark secrets. Sparks dance in her palms, forming fanciful dragons and butterflies, and a wild fire scorches the ground where she drops them. She learns to brew poisons strong enough to kill a whole regiment of men, and balms to soothe the skin. 

Merlin feels herself growing, stretching, as if her magic is a muscle she has yearned to exercise since she was born. And she hates herself for it some days, because—

She wanted to leave Ealdor, to see the world, to go where her magic was welcome. She never asked for _this,_ this grotesque mirror of her dreams. 

She’s keenly aware that her time is running out. She’s lasted out a year in this castle, played her part as well as she could. But the day is looming all the closer when Cenred and Morgause will use her against their enemies, and she will have to choose. She has no choice at all, not with her mother’s life hanging in the balance.

Merlin doesn’t know how to get ready for that. She just knows she will have to be.


End file.
